


asterisk; worthy of love anyway

by bacondoughnut



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Growth, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Oblivious, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:05:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: All of it started with the garden. Not The Garden, although it could be said that all of it started with The Garden. That was a longer story for a different time.No, all of started with Crowley's garden. The one he kept in his flat.Or rather, more specifically, Crowley's gardenia.in which crowley projects onto his plants, aziraphale adores the plants, and drama and love confessions follow.





	asterisk; worthy of love anyway

All of it started with the garden. Not The Garden, although it could be said that _all of it_ started with The Garden. That was a longer story for a different time.

No, all of started with Crowley's garden. The one he kept in his flat.

Or rather, more specifically, Crowley's gardenia.

When grown properly, a gardenia would be a rather exquisite plant. With luscious, verdant leaves and a pleasant smell on top of that. It was a perfect addition to anybody's garden, the salesman had informed Crowley with something akin to pride. He'd also informed Crowley that it was a plant that symbolized purity, trust, and clarity. The latter piece of information being a downside Crowley was willing to ignore in favor of the former.

He'd brought the gardenia home with him that day, in a tiny, square, black pot.

It could take the spot on the windowsill, where the maidenhair fern had been before Crowley had been forced to cast it out. The leaves insisted on wilting no matter how he watered the thing, so he'd had no other choice than to pluck the leaves from it, like the wings off--well, whatever you plucked wings from. A butterfly? A pet bird?

No, humans sometimes kept their pet birds from flying, but he was fairly sure they still had their wings attached. Whatever, that wasn't exactly the point anyway, was it.

"This hurts me far more than it hurts you," Crowley had told the plants before, on several accounts.

And certainly it was true, even more than Crowley could have known at the time. He didn't like punishing the plants, which wasn't to say that he did like the plants. Demons weren't technically supposed to _like_ anything at all.

Although, if he were to ask, he was rather certain that his superiors would tell him to like punishing the plants before they would ever tell him to like the plants. Even if they were the ones who had implied, in the first place, that they weren't supposed to like anything. Perhaps he was only meant to appreciate punishing them, but not like it. Being a demon was confusing.

Crowley hadn't chosen to be what he was, but as what he was, he also wasn't really supposed to feel empathy or compassion for anything at all. That being said, perhaps if Crowley had been something other than what he was, then hypothetically someone might be able to say he felt bad for those plants. It wasn't, after all, as if he didn't know how it could sting. Being discarded for a minor offense. Like a sunspot, or a question. It wasn't as if he didn't know how very easy it was to grow crooked, when you thought you were just growing towards the light.

Only he was what he was, and that wasn't about to change for the sake of some houseplant.

And it wasn't as if he didn't warn them. Didn't give each dissenter ample opportunity to get their act together. Those tiny, worth nothing plants had gotten more warning and more opportunity than Crowley himself ever had, it wasn't his fault they chose not to listen. Their fate was one of their own making.

The gardenia was placed in the windowsill.

Crowley took a few moments to water where the plants needed watering, checking that each of them was still as green as it was meant to be. Growing as upright as it was meant to. That they were maintaining the perfection which he demanded of them.

That perfection was maintained for all of four weeks. Not a terribly long time, least of all by celestial standards.

And of course. Of course it had to be the gardenia.

"Yellow? What have I told you about _yellow?_ You're supposed to be _green._ "

Crowley crossed the room to get a better look at the traitorous leaf. Meant to be a deep green, it had slowly faded to an awful yellow color, almost matching Crowley's own eyes. And it wasn't just a spot, it was almost the whole leaf, with only about a speck of green showing through by the stem. It was offensive, to say the least.

It was exhausting, Crowley's garden. He didn't know why they couldn't just listen to him. Was total perfection really that much to ask? No, he didn't think so.

"Just remember, you did this to yourself," Crowley told the gardenia plant as he picked it up by the pot, carrying it out of the room.

He hadn't quite decided the ultimate fate of the insubordinate gardenia, and it would yet have to wait, because suddenly there was a knock on Crowley's door.

Shit.

He'd been momentarily so preoccupied with his gardening that he'd forgotten, he was supposed to be getting ready to meet Aziraphale for lunch. Some quaint little café had just opened up about a block down from the bookshop, and Aziraphale was more excited to try it than anybody really ought to be about something like a quaint little café.

Setting the pot down next to the sink, Crowley gave the plant a quick glare that told it this wasn't over, then crossed the flat to answer the door, picking his sunglasses up off the coffee table and putting them on just before getting there.

"You don't have to keep knocking, you know," Crowley said. And if he wasn't, in fact, what he was than the word one might have used to describe his voice might have been 'fond.' Only he was what he was, and it was just a voice. "I did give you that key for a reason."

"Well, it seems a little rude to just let myself in." And, exactly because Aziraphale was what he was, the word one could have used to describe the small smile he gave could also have been 'fond,' if he were smiling at anything at all other than something that was, in fact, what Crowley was. Nonetheless, Aziraphale did give him a small smile, and said, "Especially as I am a little bit early."

"A little bit. Give me a minute, I just have to grab a jacket."

So Crowley turned and headed back into his flat, leaving the door open behind him for Aziraphale to follow or not. A little bit early. As if the span of three whole minutes was really that much of a difference to either of them.

He didn't condescend to look at the offending potted plant sitting on his kitchen counter as he walked passed it, finding his jacket exactly where he had left it earlier that morning, draped across the back of a dining room chair. As he slipped his arms through the sleeves, Aziraphale said from the other room, "Have I ever told you how nice your plants are?"

Crowley's head shot up and he asked, "Nice?"

"Oh, don't start that again. It's not as if I called _you_ nice. Although..." Aziraphale said, completely misinterpreting Crowley's incredulity. No he wasn't insulted, per se, just a little shocked. He didn't think anyone at all should compliment those mutinous, recalcitrant things. Aziraphale shook his head and continued, "Anyway, I only meant that I quite like them."

"Stop that, they'll hear you."

Aziraphale frowned at him as he stepped into the doorway to the kitchen, and then his eyes lit upon the gardenia practically quivering on the counter. The frown was, momentarily, gone.

He asked, "What are you doing with that one?"

"I haven't decided yet," Crowley said, fixing one of his sleeves and shooting a withering look at the plant. Without thinking much, he added, "Garbage disposal, perhaps."

"What? Crowley, you can't do that!"

"You're right, I can be more creative than that."

"No, I--" Aziraphale tried to interrupt, but Crowley, obliviously, kept right on along the same path.

"I could burn it. From the roots up," Crowley said thoughtfully, and the gardenia went from practically quivering to actually quivering.

"That's a dreadful idea!"

Crowley nodded, more to himself than Aziraphale, stalking over towards the window. Which was when what was really a cruel idea hit him, and he thought the gardenia's fate was essentially sealed. Still more to himself than his company, he said, "I'll throw it out the window."

Aziraphale gasped and scrambled over to meet Crowley by the window, where they both looked out at the street below.

It was the perfect punishment, Crowley thought, feeling oddly like he ought to wince. A good, long fall, but just high enough that it wouldn't be fatal. No, it would be a fate worse than death. The traffic below was moving slow enough that none of it would kill the gardenia immediately, but instead the infernal thing would be smashed and torn to shreds over what, to a plant at least, would feel like an eternity.

Aziraphale looked away from the window in favor of looking over his shoulder towards the gardenia, and then back to Crowley, eyes wide. He exclaimed, "Crowley, you can't do that!"

"Why not? Of course I can."

"Right, I suppose _you_ can," Aziraphale said, and Crowley told himself that the dismissiveness didn't sting just a little. Because it didn't. "But, Crowley, I-Well, I won't allow it."

"It's just a plant, angel," Crowley said, rolling his eyes despite knowing Aziraphale couldn't see them. He was being utterly ridiculous. It was just a plant and, more than that, it didn't deserve a defense, especially not from an angel. It didn't deserve to be forgiven or protected.

Aziraphale's frown returned then, and he asked, "Well what has it done to you, anyway, that you should want to hurt it?"

"You mean besides the obvious?" Crowley asked. The obvious being that Crowley was still, in fact, what he was. And his kind wasn't exactly well known for needing overly complex reasons, or simple reasons, or any reasons at all to want to hurt something. Aziraphale had to know that by now. Pointing accusatorily at the offending plant, Crowley said, "Just look at it, it's gone all yellow. It's... _flawed."_

"It's a single leaf. Really, now, Crowley?"

"It's an abomination, is what it is."

"It's a single leaf," Aziraphale repeated, giving Crowley a disapproving look before crossing the room towards the plant. "That's not so undeserving of forgiveness, you're just not watering it enough."

And, across the room, Aziraphale picked the pot up in his arms and looked down at the gardenia, and his look softened. Just because something had gone a little yellow, Aziraphale reasoned to the plant, did not mean it wasn't still worthy of being loved. Crowley looked on for the moment and told himself he didn't wish that someone had scooped him up in their arms like that after he'd been discarded for his flaw. Because he most certainly did not.

"You needn't be so harsh with them, you know," Aziraphale said, looking back up at Crowley. "They're doing their best."

"It isn't good enough," Crowley mumbled. Merely trying had never been good enough, not when it was the unachievable ideal of perfection being demanded. Perfection was a moving target.

"You won't hurt this one, will you? If you don't like it anymore I can care for it, but please don't harm it," Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked down at the plant and then back at the look on Aziraphale's face, so soft and so desperate. It didn't make sense. That anyone, let alone this angel, could care so much for the wellbeing of that plant. That plant which had failed the one task that was asked of it and, by all accounts, deserved whatever suffering that failure brought upon it. It had made it's own fate, after all.

Still, Crowley didn't know how to say no to that face. Unsure what to say to that, Crowley just spat, "'Course I don't like it, I don't like anything, I'm a demon."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, cradling the pot closer like he was giving it a hug. "Is that a yes?"

"Whatever," Crowley grumbled. "Keep it. Long as we can go now."

"Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale said, as if Crowley was doing him some grand, personal favor by not harming the plant.

Then, finally, they left the flat and headed off to the café that Aziraphale had been so overjoyed by the concept of. And eventually, once they were seated at a quaint little table, they left all conversation of Crowley's vile houseplants behind them.

And technically speaking Crowley might not have been supposed to like anything, but nonetheless, if Aziraphale were to invite him to that quaint little café again as soon as tomorrow or as far off as a decade from then, Crowley imagined he would have agreed instantly. He would prefer the former to the latter, though.

For the next few weeks, if anyone were to have asked Crowley whether or not he was still thinking about Aziraphale and the wayward gardenia, he would adamantly answer that no, he was not. He was thinking of far more important, demonly things, and that the incident regarding Aziraphale and the gardenia had entirely left his mind. Of course, he would have been lying, but that was after all what demons did.

In fact, he spent the better part of his free time for the next few weeks doing one of three things.

Number one being that he did end up throwing one of the plants out into the street, the zebra plant had grown far more crooked than he could any longer allow it to. And if he had to look away after it hit the ground, well, that wasn't so important.

Two was rather obstinately trying not to think of it. Which was about as successful as any other time someone deliberately and consciously tried to avoid thinking of a specific thing.

Three was, as one might guess, thinking about it.

He just couldn't make sense of it. Going by the definitions and not by personal opinion, an angel was supposed to be perfect. An angel did not have flaws. Therefore, Crowley reasoned, an angel especially would not approve of flaws in anything else. Anything that was not perfect, surely, was beneath them. They were made by God, after all, and anything not totally and one hundred percent perfect wasn't just beneath God, but disdained upon.

The gardenia was broken and flawed, and therefore, it did not deserve to be loved. And yet, Aziraphale loved it.

No, Crowley told himself, that wasn't necessarily true. Aziraphale had defended it, but that did not mean love. Not wanting harm to come to things was what angels did, wasn't it? It was just Aziraphale's nature, to hold compassion for everything, even things he wasn't necessarily supposed to. But compassion did not mean love.

Besides, in stopping Crowley from throwing the gardenia out a window or setting it aflame, he had thwarted a demons plans. Which, however miniscule the plan was, was just what Aziraphale thought he ought to be doing. It was his job.

If it were really as simple as all that, though, then...why had it seemed so personal to Aziraphale, when Crowley had promised not to hurt it? Was it possible the angel actually cared for something so inherently wrong?

It was that debate that was still running through Crowley's mind all those weeks later, and which he would deny to be running through his mind, that had likely been the cause of not only his pent up energy making him choose to go for an evening walk, but for that evening walk absently guiding him to the front step of Aziraphale's little bookshop.

"Crowley?"

Crowley turned to see Aziraphale standing just a few feet behind him, looking like he was returning from somewhere. With a smile that, if either he weren't what he was and he weren't aware what Crowley was, one might have described as gleeful. He said, and his tone seemed careful not to imply the drop in was unwelcome, "What are you doing here?"

"I was just out for a walk," Crowley answered, honest enough.

"Well would you like to come in? You must be cold," Aziraphale said, indicating the clouds in the sky. It did look as though it were going to rain. The day was a fluke for the season, but that didn't make it any less true. "I can make you some tea."

It wasn't like Crowley couldn't, did he desire any, make his own tea. It wasn't like Crowley even particularly liked most kinds of tea. Somehow, he still answered, "Delighted to."

The smile on Aziraphale's face only grew, spread out like a welcome mat or arms offering a hug. He unlocked the door and held it open, gesturing for Crowley to go in ahead of him. It might very well have been that Aziraphale insisted upon holding the door for Crowley nearly every time because he was kind, and holding the door was a popular human gesture of being chivalrous. It may also very well have been that he didn't trust one of Crowley's kind to be walking behind him.

Once they were inside, Aziraphale led Crowley upstairs to the living space on the second floor. Crowley had already made himself comfortable on the sofa, but all the same Aziraphale said, "Just make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back with the tea."

Then he disappeared into the adjoining room to make the tea. Why he always made it by hand, the human way, Crowley still wasn't quite sure.

While Aziraphale was gone, Crowley noticed something about the room. There, where the curtains were tied back with ribbon, perched on the windowsill, was the gardenia. In a new pot, still black but shaped different. A little bigger. Rounder, none of the harsh edges of Crowley's old pot.

He glanced over at the doorway Aziraphale had vanished through, then got up and strode over to the plant, narrowing his eyes at it.

The despicable thing had grown since Crowley last saw it. The soil looked like it had been freshly watered, and the buds that had grown when the gardenia lived at Crowley's flat were actually flowering. One of them was asymmetrical.

"Look at you, sitting here all cozy," Crowley said in a disdainful whisper, crouching down to look at the plant more eye to eye. Or eye to leaf, as the case may have been. "Live it up while you can, you--you _abomination_. The angel might care for you now, but sooner or later he's going to notice how deeply flawed you are. He's going to see how imperfect you are, right down to the bone. Er, the root. And when he does, see how quickly he casts you out. See how much you like being loved when you realize how quickly it can be torn away--"

"Crowley," Aziraphale cut him off from the other room. "My dear, are you being mean to AJ again?"

"No."

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in each hand and a look on his face somewhere between amused and chiding. He shook his head and said, "You know, for a demon, you really are a terrible liar."

Crowley wondered how true the statement was, if he was really only a terrible liar when it came to lying to Aziraphale. In the end, he elected not to comment, instead taking the mug Aziraphale offered with a reluctant grumble of, "Thanks."

Then it dawned on him and Crowley looked up and asked, "Hold on, you gave that wretched thing a name? And the name's AJ?"

"Aziraphale Junior," Aziraphale said, grinning. "One of the customers came up with it. I think it's rather sweet, don't you?"

"I'm a demon, I don't do sweet."

So Aziraphale went and sat down on the sofa, and after a second Crowley joined him.

If the moment were observed by non-immortals it might have been regarded as long, but observed by two immortals it was just regarded. Regardless, for the moment the pair of them just sat there on the sofa together, Aziraphale sipping lightly at his tea while Crowley just clutched his own mug for the warmth, listening to the thunder roll in.

Maybe it was because of the silence between them, he hadn't been able to figure out the answer for weeks and there was an opportunity. Maybe because he had a gift for all kinds of sabotage, even self. Whatever the reason, Crowley found himself interrupting the silence with, "And I'm not too mean to the plant, you're too nice to it."

"He seems to be growing just fine with all of my being nice to him," Aziraphale pointed out, shooting a look over at the windowsill with pride. It wasn't like he was proud of himself for being kind. No, worse. He was proud of the _plant_ for growing. He said, "I'm quite fond of him. Look, he's got flowers."

"Yeah, two. And one of them is all lopsided and wonky."

Aziraphale regarded him with a thoughtful look then, before saying simply, matter of fact, "Sometimes something's beauty lies in its imperfections, I think."

That was high talk, Crowley thought, coming from an angel. And, were it to in fact have come from any angel other than the exact one it came from, he might even have acted on that flash of anger the comment brought up. Instead, he sat in silent resentment. Although which of them it was he silently resented he wasn't entirely clear on.

Usually Aziraphale was so clever, how he could be so blind just then was baffling. Beauty lying in imperfection. It was an utterly ridiculous suggestion.

Crowley had seen imperfection up close and personal, he knew it well. It wasn't beautiful, it was ugly. Not that he didn't have a certain appreciation for the ugly or the grotesque, and make no mistake imperfection was that.

Still, the nerve of one who was bathed in the purity that was Heaven's light deigning to tell one who was stained with the impurity of Hellfire was....Well, it was just that. Nerve.

After that, they just sat in silence and watched the rain begin to pour down outside the window. Sat there until long after Crowley's tea had gone cold, and yet he hadn't put the mug down or drank much more than a couple of sips. Eventually Aziraphale got up to show Crowley those new books he'd been ranting about over the phone all week.

And, although Crowley proclaimed not to like books, he curled up on the couch beside Aziraphale and spent the better part of the evening helping him with his more than rusty Italian anyway.

It was almost perfect.

When the rain finally did stop, Crowley left for his own place. Leaving Aziraphale to his books and his stupid plant.

It was, at least to Crowley, despite the building's heating system being far more advanced than Aziraphale's fireplace, significantly colder back at his flat.

Despite it being the beginning of what was supposed to be summer, it rained like that for the rest of the week. As such, Crowley didn't go out much for the rest of the week. As a matter of fact, he spent most of it either sleeping or looking for reasons to terrorize the garden.

It wasn't like he couldn't go out in the rain. He certainly was capable.

Only he didn't like it very much. Which was certainly, totally, not at all because it made him think in the very furthest part of his mind about the very first rain. Too many rains had happened after that. No, that had, at least in Crowley's mind, nothing to do with why he didn't like the rain. He didn't like it because...well, what snake ever did like the cold, anyway? So he slept.

Demon's didn't often remember their dreams.

The average human had as many as three to five dreams per night, and they tended to remember only one. Demons slept more erratically than humans, for either longer or shorter periods of time and far less consistently. That made a statistic harder to measure, but it could be roughly said that they had between six and twelve dreams per sleep, and they tended to remember none.

When Crowley dreamt, he dreamt of Eden. Of luscious, verdant leaves and of familiar sting.

When the week finally closed out, it did so with only some slight drizzling.

A more forgiving person, then, would have blamed the way the cane plant had begun to shrivel and brown ever so slightly on the lack of adequate sunlight for a week.

Crowley was neither forgiving nor a person. In fact, at that point in his terribly long existence, he wasn't entirely sure that forgiveness existed at all outside of anything but a figurative concept. Like perfection. And, as such, he did not blame the lack of adequate sunlight but instead, a lack of sufficient effort. Something would have to be done about that.

Sometime later, Crowley was called back to the upper room of Aziraphale's bookshop.

"It seems," Aziraphale had said over the phone. "That my French is even more hopeless than my Italian. Would you mind?"

"You could just miracle it into English, angel," had been the first thing Crowley said when he got there, but he was there all the same. Draping himself across his usual spot on the sofa, he added, "Actually, the humans have this great invention for that, it's called Google Translate. Why don't you give that a go, hm?"

"It's just not the same," Aziraphale answered.

Which had to mean that a translation wasn't the same as reading it in the proper language, even if you had to be retaught the occasional word, and not that it wasn't the same without Crowley the demon sitting on the sofa beside him.

Whatever it meant, Crowley did end up sitting on the sofa beside him, propping his feet up on the coffee table. They shared the book between their laps and after a little while Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, to get a better angle at seeing the page. The sun had just begun to set outside the open window.

That, too, was almost perfect.

They made it halfway through the third chapter before the disruption.

The disruption being that a set of lorries chose that moment to go driving by on the street below. Which wasn't a terrible offense on its own, and they weren't actually terribly loud, all things considered. They were just big, and driving swift, and enough of them passing through at once had the effect of making the ground shake just a little.

Just enough, apparently, to knock things off of windowsills.

Things like ceramic pots, for example.

The gardenia hit the floor with a crippling smash, and if plants did indeed have faces it would have fallen face first. The pot didn't shatter exactly, but it did split off into about three large pieces, with a few smaller chunks scattered about. Dirt and soil everywhere.

Aziraphale was on his feet in an instant.

In fact, he seemed so very distraught by the plant simply falling of its own accord, that Crowley thought he would have hated to see Aziraphale's face if he'd been around for most of the other plants fates. That was okay for a demon to be thinking, Crowley reasoned after a second of doubt, because he was after all thinking he would hate something. Which was what he was meant to do.

He almost felt bad. Not bad as in evil, bad as in sympathy. That was less okay for a demon to be thinking, Crowley knew. Still, he had said almost.

Crowley took a moment to make sure that the lorry drivers' radio stations all fritzed so they were stuck on a station playing only ballads by Sarah McLachlan before getting up to go stand beside Aziraphale.

Attempting to collect the plant up, Aziraphale said fretfully, "He's fallen, poor thing."

"It was inevitable," Crowley said with a shrug. "He'll get used it. I mean, it. It'll get used to it."

Aziraphale miracled the pot back into one piece, shooting Crowley an odd look before turning to the gardenia. Ever so gently, he picked it back up from where it had fallen and placed it back into the pot, smoothing over the dirt and replacing any that it had lost. Cooing reassurances all the way.

Crowley sat down on the floor with Aziraphale, looking back and forth between him and the plant more obvious than he thought he was. With an incredulous frown he asked, "Why are you being so kind to it?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Aziraphale said, as if it were the simplest thing in the universe.

"Er, wh-Because lookit, it messed up," Crowley answered, gesturing to the specks of dirt still strewn across the hardwood floor. "It's bloody job was to sit on the windowsill and now look what it's done."

"Crowley, I won't blame AJ for something that isn't even his fault. He can only do his best, you know. It's not his fault he fell."

With a scoff, Crowley stood back up and stalked off.

What kind of talk was that? It wasn't his _fault_ he fell, he could only do his best? Well Crowley had done his best too, and he'd been punished anyway. And nobody had ever picked him up, let alone with that much care, to tell him that it wasn't his fault.

Not, of course, to imply that he'd ever so much as wanted someone to, or even that the dumb plant had anything at all in common with Crowley.

He didn't need someone to pick him up and whisper reassurances at him, no he was perfectly capable of picking himself back up. He didn't need someone to tell him that it wasn't his fault. Because he hadn't done it on purpose, sure, but it most definitely was his fault. Which was a fact that he'd made his--well, demons didn't technically make peace with anything. It wasn't in their nature. But it was a fact he wasn't warring with anymore, anyway.

"There now," Aziraphale said softly after he'd repotted the thing, walking over to set it down on the coffee table, where it was less likely to fall. "You're going to be just fine, AJ."

"You're going to be just fine," Crowley repeated in a nasally voice.

Aziraphale glanced up at him momentarily, and because Crowley couldn't think of anything better to do he stuck his tongue out at him. With a small, unfazed hum, Aziraphale turned back to the plant and said, "Don't mind him, he can be rather childish sometimes."

"You're one to talk. Look at you, fawning over a fucking plant."

"I'm not fawning," Aziraphale said, "I just want to make sure he's alright."

"What do you _care_ if it's alright?"

"Crowley, why do you hate the plant so much?" Aziraphale asked, and he actually seemed legitimately confused. Like he just couldn't fathom it. "I mean, I know you're a demon, but I've never seen you like this. Why do you want _me_ to hate the plant so much?"

Really, Aziraphale should have been aware that he was practically answering his own question.

After all, wasn't it supposed to be Crowley's job to hate and to make others hate? To make the divine hate, well that would just make him an overachiever, nothing more and nothing less. Besides, the why was less important when they got down to the simple fact that the gardenia deserved it. It was imperfect and corrupt and it had to be punished.

"He deserves it."

"AJ deserves it," Aziraphale repeated, even less understanding.

"Yes."

"The plant deserves it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Crowley threw his hands up in the air. Then, scrambling for a coherent reason to explain his insistence, he said, "Because! Because it-it, uh...Because it questioned you! It questioned your plan for it! You wanted it to sit on the windowsill and grow nicely, and it fell off the windowsill and grew wonky flowers! It doesn't deserve your care."

Something dawned on Aziraphale's face then, some realization that seemed to, in his mind, make everything make sense.

It was about time, Crowley thought. Now they could agree of discarding the gardenia and get on with their evening. They'd wasted enough time on that houseplant.

Instead, what Aziraphale said, small and almost but not quite wounded, "Crowley, is that what you think?"

"Yes! Of course it is. Why the hell would I say it if I didn't think it?"

And why the hell did the angel seem so troubled by wherever their conversation had turned?

Aziraphale finally stepped away from the gardenia on the coffee table, taking about a half of a step towards where Crowley was standing before stopping. He shook his head ever so slightly and, in the same tone as before, said, "Crowley, that's not--That is to say, I...Oh, confound it. You're not a houseplant, Crowley."

"I...What?"

What?

"You think I should hate him because he questioned a plan," Aziraphale said. Gently, like he was explaining to a child that their dog 'ran away.' "Sound a little familiar?"

Crowley glared. Or well, he hoped he glared, at the moment it felt more like a frown. Shaking his head, he said, "Eugh, no. No. Whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it."

Even if Aziraphale had wanted to listen to him, which it didn't appear that he did, he probably wouldn't have succeeded. As Crowley had already learned himself earlier, it was a rather difficult task, to consciously try to stop yourself from thinking about something.

"Oh dear, is that why you were telling him the other day that I would end up casting him out?" Aziraphale gasped, which was really the opposite of letting it go. "Is that what you think I'm going to do with you?"

"Angel, you're being ridiculous," Crowley said.

Which, admittedly, wasn't a no.

And Crowley wasn't admitting to think that, not by any means, but if he were then would it really be so preposterous? Aziraphale was deluding himself into thinking sure, Crowley was a demon, but he wasn't that bad. Nice. He'd called Crowley nice, on more than one occasion. If that wasn't a surefire sign that Aziraphale was delusional than Crowley didn't know what was.

No, what was so strange about the whole situation wasn't the idea that eventually Aziraphale would wake up from his delusions and realize he didn't want Crowley, the enemy, around anymore. What was so very strange was that the way the very thought of that happening made Crowley feel.

And it was only a matter of time.

"No, you're being ridiculous," Aziraphale said, but there wasn't any bite behind his words. Even when they were fighting he was still so...so soft. "I would never do that to you, Crowley."

"Oh, for--Aziraphale, do you hear yourself? We are talking about a gardenia, and that's all that it is."

"Okay," Aziraphale said, sounding less than convinced.

"And by the way, I'm not the one that gave the thing my bloody initials, am I?"

Impossibly, Aziraphale's frown deepened. "What are you implying?"

"You just had to swoop in, didn't you? Be all kind and make the ugly thing like you, so it'll hurt all the more when you eventually cast it aside," Crowley said, and when he saw Aziraphale's face he felt he should stop talking but he found he couldn't. "You had to tell it maybe it does deserve love after all, and here I thought angels weren't supposed to lie."

"It's not a lie--"

Crowley cut him off, because lying about lying was just a double offense. He said, "Let me tell you something, angel. Maybe that plant was just fine before you came along. Maybe it doesn't. Need. You."

And before he had to look at the hurt in Aziraphale's face--that he felt so drawn to fix even though he was well aware it had been him that caused it--and before Aziraphale would have any actual chance to answer that, Crowley spun around and turned to leave.

Before he could he stopped to snap his fingers so that a French to English dictionary appeared in his hands, and he dropped it onto the coffee table next to the book they'd been reading. Maybe Aziraphale would appreciate not needing help from a demon for a little while.

On his way out he heard Aziraphale calling after him, but Crowley ignored him. He figured they'd both said enough for today.

Apparently, as things turned out, they'd both said enough for more than just that day.

Crowley thought about calling Aziraphale the next day, and then three days after that, and then a whole week after that. That third time he even went so far as to actually do it, only he hung up before it could ring so much as once.

He told himself it wasn't important that his own phone never rang. They had gotten in plenty of fights before, and they'd always gotten over it. Hell, it wasn't even the first time that Crowley had told Aziraphale he didn't need him. (Which seemed to be the only lie he was able to tell Aziraphale that the daft old angel actually bought.) Come next week, Crowley reasoned, both of them would have forgotten all about their little shouting match.

In the meantime, he had his garden to tend to.

The pothos plant had begun to wilt, as if to imply that Crowley was keeping the flat too hot. Which meant that obviously Crowley would have to show the plant what real heat actually felt like.

Whether or not demons were technically supposed to feel was something of a hazy subject, as was whether or not they could feel better.

Better, like perfection, was a moving target.

Demons walked around in what, to a not-demon, might have been described as near constant suffering. Because it was in their nature not to like anything at all, and in fact to detest things. To a human, detestation was not an inherently pleasant feeling. But when one felt a certain level of pain all the time, one might begin to wonder if they could even still call it pain. So it was only slightly more accurate to state that demons didn't technically feel things. At least, not in the traditional sense.

And if they did not feel how, then, were they meant to feel better?

All the same, when Crowley had set about to setting the pothos plant aflame, it had been with the vague--well, hope was something else that demon's weren't technically supposed to feel. But it had been with the vague notion that doing so might make him feel better.

Instead all he felt was worse. Unless worse _was_ a demon's better?

It was while he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the flames go up and feeling worse, that the phone finally did ring.

He made no move to answer it, nor would an onlooker have seen any sign that he was even listening at all. But when the voicemail gave its usual greeting, as was usually the case when Aziraphale spoke, he had all of Crowley's attention.

What he said was, "Crowley? I'm sorry about the other day. I realize I overstepped some boundary, I just...Well anyway, I apologize. I thought perhaps I could make it up to you?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, but he was on his feet in an instant, picking up the phone.

And when what he really wanted to be saying in that moment was, "I'm sorry, too, angel," all he actually found himself saying was, "How?"

"Ah, how," Aziraphale said with some slight surprise. Crowley wasn't sure if it was because he hadn't expected him to pick up the phone, or because he hadn't actually put much thought into the how when he made the decision to call. After a half second what he came up with was, "I've got it! Why don't I take you to the zoo?"

"The zoo?" Crowley echoed.

Not that he was particularly adverse to the idea. Just a little confused was all.

He'd never actually been to the zoo, unless the grocery market on a Saturday afternoon counted. Well, that whole business with the Arc had been kind of like a zoo...Anyway, he'd never actually deliberately gone to the zoo. He didn't think Aziraphale had either.

"I'm told they have the best ice cream," Aziraphale said. "Oh, and there should be lots of frustrated parents there, and people stuck waiting in ridiculous lines. You'll love it."

Well, Crowley had always been a sucker for people stuck waiting in lines. They just got so annoyed, it was hilarious. That was why he had invented the DMV.

But as much as he wasn't going to admit it, even to himself, Aziraphale could have answered with just about anything at all and Crowley probably would have agreed. Breathing out a sigh, and with it some of the tension he'd been holding on to, Crowley answered, "Alright then. The zoo. When should I meet you?"

They hacked out the rest of the details of their trip to the zoo, and by the time Crowley hung up the phone he'd almost completely forgotten about the pothos plant smoldering away behind him. He snuffed the fire out on his way to the door.

The zoo was more or less as promised.

Busy with people, in varying degrees of distress. Which made no sense to Crowley, because didn't the humans proclaim to visit these places for fun? And yet half of them were complaining about the sun, or the lines, or the money, or this, or that. Kids were either ecstatically hopping about from exhibit to exhibit or crying that they were bored, and there was no in between. Funny enough, either end of the spectrum seemed to annoy the shit out of their guardians.

And Aziraphale did buy him ice cream. It wasn't 'the best' necessarily, but it was rather good. They sat down to eat it on a bench across from the birds of prey.

"D'you think they get jealous?" Crowley asked after a moment, gesturing from the birds in the enclosure to the group of pigeons and crows scavenging around over by a trashcan.

"Why would they? If anything it's the other way round."

"What? How do you mean?"

"Look, Crowley, they're eating trash," Aziraphale said, as if his reasoning should have been obvious. Maybe it made a little sense. "Those ones get good food everyday. Protection from the elements."

"Pfft, protection's protection," Crowley said, as if that made any sort of sense at all. Then, "Least they're free."

Aziraphale frowned, as if giving that point some serious consideration. Ultimately he must have decided that it was better not to comment, because he chose that moment to point somewhere to their left and ask, "What's that over there?"

Crowley had to crane his neck to see anything around the crowd of humans huddled over there, and as it was the half of the sign that he could see read only Exhibit. Remarkably informative. "I dunno. Shall we?"

Once they made their way over to the little building there, it became clear that it was actually the reptile exhibit. In part because they could actually read that the sign said Reptile Exhibit. But also in part because of the overly energetic woman standing in front of the crowd telling them, "Up next, we have our reptile exhibit! It's home to over twenty different snakes, and around twelve different species of lizard..."

"Oooh, twelve whole species," Crowley said, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, hush."

So they followed the group inside the Reptile Exhibit.

The room was somewhat darkly lit, with most of the light coming from the glass enclosures the animals were in. The first one that they stopped to look at was a gold-ringed cat snake, which was doing such interesting things as sleeping, and sitting there completely still. Entertainment at its finest. Humans were so easily amused.

Aziraphale went to read the little blurb of information about the snake that had been framed in front of the enclosure like the nerd that he was.

While he was trying to read, Crowley leaned over to ask, "How funny would it be if I were to turn into a snake right now? Make everyone think one of them had got loose."

"Not very funny at all," Aziraphale said, looking scandalized by the very idea.

"You're no fun, angel," Crowley said, and if he were not, in fact, what he was than the word someone might have used to describe the way he smiled ever so slightly at the angel might have been 'affectionate.'

They looked at a number of largely unimpressive lizards, as well as a number of only marginally more impressive snakes.

He and Aziraphale were debating about whether or not to miracle the Burmese python, who seemed somewhat depressed in his enclosure, back into somewhere in nature where he belonged when the tour guide approached them. She said, "Are you two with the tour? I'm just letting everyone know we'll be moving on in a couple of minutes."

"Oh, thank you, but we're not with the tour no," Aziraphale said. "We're just here for the snakes."

"They're pretty cool, aren't they?"

"Yes, I'm quite fond of them."

"Are you?" Crowley asked, with some surprise.

He supposed it would have made sense for Aziraphale to simply say he liked them. In that he surely subscribed to that 'love all of God's creatures' nonsense that his lot liked to spout. But fond was a bit of stretch, wasn't it?

Perhaps they should have been moving on soon, though, because it seemed Aziraphale wasn't so accustomed to how hot the zoo kept the reptile exhibit. His cheeks were slightly pink when he answered, "Yes well, they are God's creatures, after all."

As it turned out, the tour guide was either incredibly indulgent or far more enthusiastic about her place of work than any employee should be, because she and Aziraphale quickly struck up a conversation between them about the zoo. Which was, frankly, a conversation Crowley wasn't all that terribly interested in, and he wound up wandering off.

He stopped a few feet away, over by the asp viper's enclosure. It was there that he heard some small person's voice asking, "Why don't they blink?"

And without thinking really, he answered passively, "They don't have eyelids."

"They don't?"

"Nope. They've just got a transparent scale there."

"Cool!" the voice answered with childlike wonder.

Which was, it turned out, because the voice did in fact belong to a child and not just a small human. Crowley glanced down to see the kid looking up at the viper, quite literally up as she had to stand on the very tips of her toes to see properly, with her eyes wide with amazement. But it was only for a moment, because then she looked over at Crowley and asked, "What else?"

"What else? What do you mean what else?"

"Tell me more cool stuff!"

It wasn't like he had a presentation prepared or anything. Put on the spot, Crowley just answered with the first thing that popped into his mind. Which, in that moment, for some reason, was, "Around two hundred and fifty different kinds of them can kill a human with just one bite."

And for a split second he wondered if he maybe shouldn't have said that, because the child just blinked at him.

Then she broke out into a grin and shouted, "Awesome! Snakes are so cool!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Crowley talked to the kid for a little while then. It wasn't like he had anything better to do and besides, somebody had to tell the kid that snakes could unhinge their jaws so as to eat prey bigger than their head.

That was, until some boring adult had to come over and usher the kid away, muttering something about talking to strangers.

Aziraphale showed up about a second after the kid had gone, leading Crowley to wonder how long he'd actually been talking to the tour guide. There was a skeptical look on his face when he glanced after the direction the kid had gone in and asked, "Making friends, are we, dear?"

"She wanted to learn about snakes," Crowley said with a light shrug.

Aziraphale gave him a look then that was just a little bit hard to read, and said, "That was nice of you."

Rather eloquently, Crowley answered, "Shut up."

When Crowley made it back to his own flat later that day, he didn't even bother checking on the plants on his way in. He did clean up the ashy mess he'd left on his floor before he'd left in the morning, but that was about all he did before climbing into bed.

Demons didn't often remember their dreams.

But when Crowley dreamt it was of magnificent birds of prey, and of a garden.

It wasn't until almost a month later that Crowley found that one of his plants hadn't been growing according to standard. The sansevieria trifascatia, often called a viper's bowstring or snake plant for short. The tips were beginning to brown, which could no longer continue to go unnoticed. It was a shame. If only he was supposed to feel things like hope, he would have had such high hopes for that one.

He got as far as carrying the pot outside of the flat before he realized he wasn't entirely sure what his plan was for the traitor.

Seeing as he couldn't very well just stand there indecisively, and he couldn't bring it back inside, he just loaded the plant into the Bentley and drove. Where to, he would have to decide as he went.

Somehow, he wound up at St. James Park.

Which was where Aziraphale found him, sitting in the grass by the lake, staring intently at the potted plant in front of him. Earning quite a few uncertain looks from the passersby but not quite caring.

"Crowley? What on Earth are you doing?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Oh, not this again. Crowley, if you set that plant on fire I....Well, I shall be very cross with you."

"Why would I drive it all this way just to burn it? Think, angel," Crowley said, looking momentarily away from the plant to give Aziraphale a judgmental look. "Although, I could drown it. I bet the pot would sink."

Aziraphale walked over, miracling a little blanket before sitting down on the ground next to Crowley. He said, "I suppose there's no convincing you simply to forgive the poor thing."

"Not a chance in Hell," Crowley said.

The both of them sat there in silence for a long moment, Aziraphale looking at Crowley and Crowley looking at the plant. Then, finally, Aziraphale said, "Perhaps I can help."

"I'm not giving you the plant, angel, you'll be too nice to it."

"No, I had a suggestion."

Crowley frowned, finally turning to look over at Aziraphale. It couldn't possibly be a good suggestion. Well, it could only be a Good suggestion actually, which was why Crowley doubted he would be able to use it. Still he was rather stumped as to what a fitting punishment for this plant would be, and as he wasn't coming up with any ideas of his own, he figured it couldn't hurt to hear him out.

Sighing, he asked, "What is it?"

"Leave it here," Aziraphale said, indicating the park.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"It can live here, with humanity being humanity. They litter you know, not very respectful to plant life," Aziraphale said. "Oh and the bugs, and the dreadful weather. And all the while, it shall have to survive here knowing it's not...where it used to be."

It wasn't as if Crowley couldn't see right through what Aziraphale was doing, trying to spare the plant from an immediate death to buy the thing more time. But, all things considered, it wasn't a terribly bad suggestion. Not an entirely Bad suggestion either, but not a bad one anyway.

Crowley considered the plant for a moment, then the rest of the park. Then after a second he said, "That could work."

Aziraphale nodded, looking somewhat relieved.

"Anyway, what are you up to today, Crowley?"

"How about lunch?"

"Sounds delightful. Where to?"

They spent a little while longer deliberating over where best to get lunch at before deciding to head back to that quaint little café they'd been to before.

It was quieted away in the corner of the café that they sat there talking when the rain picked up again outside, Aziraphale sipping away at a mug of tea while Crowley merely held his for the warmth.

They talked about the zoo, and they talked about the weather, and they talked about Aziraphale's books. It seemed he'd picked one up in Spanish that was giving him a little bit of trouble, and, "Perhaps later this week you could help me with it? You've always been so much better at the romance languages than me, I really would appreciate it."

"Alright, I can come over," Crowley said, making it sound as if it would be a draining sort of task. Really it wasn't. Actually, Crowley knew he wasn't technically supposed to like things, but he found he rather enjoyed reading with Aziraphale. "Long as I don't have to watch you coo over that bloody gardenia again."

"I only want yo--him to feel loved."

"Love is a myth," he scoffed.

"You don't really believe that, of course."

It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.

Crowley wasn't, admittedly, entirely sure he believed it or not. He was sure he had, at some point in time, believed it. But if it were true that demons weren't supposed to feel such things, he couldn't be especially certain that other beings did or didn't.

Uncertain or no, playing devil's advocate was practically the job description, so Crowley shrugged and answered, "'Course I do."

"Well, it's real," Aziraphale stated. Then with a small nod, he resolved, "Perhaps, one day, I shall be able to prove it to you."

He had said it so quietly that Crowley wasn't sure it had been entirely meant for him to hear, let alone actually respond to. So Crowley swallowed the 'Not bloody likely' that he felt like he was supposed to respond with, and instead said, "Perhaps one day, angel."

And even though Aziraphale was exactly what he was, and he knew full well that Crowley was still, in fact, what he was the word that one could have used to describe the look that he gave Crowley could very well have been 'devotion.'

When the rain lightened to more of a sprinkle, they headed out from the café.

It was one day that week that Crowley ended up swinging by the bookshop to help Aziraphale with the book he'd mentioned before.

Of course, after some time spent sitting on their usual spots on the sofa reading the book together, Crowley began to believe that Aziraphale wasn't having quite so much trouble with his Spanish as he had thought he was. In fact, while just a little bit rusty, Aziraphale's Spanish was near perfect. Why he thought he needed any help with it at all was beyond Crowley.

He wasn't planning on saying anything, but Aziraphale had to look up at him and say, "You're quiet today. Is there something on your mind?"

"Only that you're better at Spanish than you think you are," Crowley said.

"Crowley, are you complimenting me?"

Aziraphale smiled at him. It was almost coy.

Crowley nudged him with his elbow and said, "Don't be daft. I'm merely stating an observation."

With a slight hum, Aziraphale turned back to the book and muttered smugly, "Sounds like a compliment."

"You're impossible," Crowley told him, with an attempt at rolling his eyes. The effect was surely lessened by both the sunglasses, and the simple fact that his face was betraying him with an odd desire to smile.

"Thank you, dear. Now what's this word here? I'm sure I know it."

Shaking his head, Crowley turned his attention back to the book, where Aziraphale was pointing.

They read like that for some time, and eventually, again, Aziraphale leaned over to rest his head on Crowley's shoulder. And being what he was, it was a word Crowley would never use himself, but the word anyone else could have used to describe the way that Crowley looked down at Aziraphale in that moment could very have been 'adoration.'

That was, until the moment was ruined by Aziraphale shooting up with an exclamation of, "Oh dear!"

"What?" Crowley asked. He hadn't actually realized how relaxed he had been sitting on the sofa there until he was suddenly alert again, wondering what it was that had upset the angel. "What is it?"

"I nearly forgot to water AJ," Aziraphale said, as if it were the end of the world.

He was already getting up off the sofa to go and perform the task, but all the same Crowley scoffed and said, "Just miracle it, you don't have to get up for that."

"It lacks the personal touch," Aziraphale answered, heading into his kitchen and returning with a small pitcher of water. "How will he know he's cared for, hm?"

"It's a plant."

"Speaking of plants," Aziraphale said, vanishing the water pitcher back into the kitchen as he sat back down beside Crowley. "You haven't set fire to any recently, have you?"

Crowley groaned. "We're not having this discussion again."

The angel actually had the audacity to look confused when he said, "It was only a question."

And truth be told, Crowley hadn't. He'd certainly threatened to, quite a few times in fact. But over the past few weeks he hadn't actually needed to. Since no conversation could ever be that simple, though, instead of just answering Crowley had to say, "I can't understand why you're so protective over a bunch of houseplants."

"I ought to be protective over all living things, oughtn't I? I am an angel after all."

"Giving me the party line isn't actually an answer," Crowley said, waving a hand dismissively. "That's like if you asked me why I punish the plants, and I only said it was because I'm a demon."

"Crowley, that _is_ what you say."

"Well, I can do that, I'm a demon."

Aziraphale threw his hands up and said, "Seriously, Crowley?"

In all honesty, it shouldn't have been an answer that mattered. Crowley didn't understand why Aziraphale was so willing to forgive the plants, but that was far from the only thing the pair of them disagreed on. So he didn't know why it made him so irritated when Aziraphale was kind to the gardenia. But it was, perhaps, the not knowing that made him so insistent.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "What? It's a simple question, angel."

"I don't know," Aziraphale said.

Crowley made a sound that was something like a poor imitation of a game show buzzer and said, "You do. You still think I'm...projecting or whatever it was, don't you?"

Aziraphale crossed his arms in front of him. Softly, like a petulant child, he muttered, "Only because you are."

"I'm not," Crowley said, because he wasn't. Then, even though he wasn't, "Even if I was, what would it matter to you?"

"Why shouldn't it matter?"

"Cop out."

"Beg pardon?"

"Just give me an honest answer. That's what you do, isn't it? Honesty is a virtue after all."

"Because--Because I love you!" Aziraphale blurted, and if the way a hand flew up to cover his mouth after he'd said it was any indication, it wasn't something that he had meant to say out loud. 

Crowley opened his mouth to offer an argument solely on instinct, but once the words registered he blinked and closed it again.

But where Crowley couldn't seem to think of anything at all to say, it seemed Aziraphale had the opposite problem. Now that he'd said it, he had to keep talking. He said, "I love you, Crowley. And I'm sorry, but you have no idea what it's like. To see someone that you...someone that you _love_ hate himself so much."

Again, Crowley just blinked. It was all he could think to do.

"Say something, Crowley," Aziraphale said, after the silence had passed for a few seconds. He breathed out a sigh, and with it the righteous indignation that he'd been holding seemed to deflate. "Please?"

The only answer Crowley's mind was willing to supply him was a disbelieving, "You love me?"

"Yes!"

He shook his head.

That couldn't be true. Demons weren't, technically, supposed to feel things like love, that much was a fact. But even more indisputable was that they certainly weren't supposed to _be_ loved. Least of all by an angel.

But then, if any angel were to love a demon, it would be Aziraphale.

Aziraphale who gave his flaming sword away to the humans and then lied to God about it, because he cared too much. Aziraphale who revived ants when he accidentally stepped on them, and ran a bookshop but never actually sold a book because he was too attached to them. Aziraphale who consistently, always cared too much. Even when he wasn't supposed to.

Even when it would get him in trouble.

And maybe it made sense, then, that when he had said he was quite fond of the gardenia, or quite fond of snakes, what he was really saying was this: that he was quite fond of Crowley.

"I..." Crowley started to say, although he wasn't sure where he was going with that. "You can't."

"What do you mean, I can't? Of course I can. I do."

"No, I mean you _can't_ ," Crowley said, shaking his head. "You'll get hurt."

As if it were the simplest thing in the world, Aziraphale said, "Well I don't care. Besides, you said it yourself, they'll leave us alone for awhile."

Crowley would have agreed, if it were them he'd been referring to. Crowley's kind and Aziraphale's kind, that was. Because it was true, when they found out they certainly wouldn't approve. And they would find out, sooner or later.

Only it wasn't them Crowley knew would hurt Aziraphale.

If Aziraphale loved Crowley, well it was only because he didn't know him. Nice. He'd called Crowley nice. And it was only a matter of time until Aziraphale woke up and realized that Crowley was more flawed than he was letting himself believe, and then he wouldn't love him anymore, and then both of them would hurt.

And if Crowley were given the choice between both of them hurting, or only himself. Well, he would choose himself every time.

Although it was possible that Aziraphale knew him better than Crowley thought he did, because in response to the silence he gave Crowley a knowing look and said, softly, "But it's not them you're worried about, is it?"

It was true, but all the same, Crowley pulled a face and said, "Don't be daft."

"Well what is it, then?"

And not willing to explain the whole truth of his feelings, not knowing how to even if he were, and oh so vulnerable, Crowley defaulted. Back to the answer he'd been using for thousands of years, the only shield he had for a vulnerability he was never meant to have. He said, "I'm a demon, Aziraphale."

It was a little bit funny, the way that simple fact was simultaneously his shield and the only reason he needed a shield in the first place.

But a demon wasn't supposed to feel things like love, and they certainly weren't supposed to be loved. It was just the way things were.

Aziraphale just looked at him for what felt somehow like a long time and all too short at once. Entirely understanding despite not having been given an actual explanation.

"Right," Aziraphale finally said. "Love is a myth."

"Angel, it's not that simple."

"Of course it's not."

"Then what--"

"Just to clarify, you think I can't love you because you're a demon. Because," Aziraphale said, looking away for a second. Crowley followed his gaze over to gardenia, and Aziraphale continued, "Because you're a little bit yellow? Is that it?"

It was remarkably oversimplified, given the circumstances. But, well, in a sense it was correct. Crowley gave him a look that was certainly not a pout, and answered, "More or less."

"That makes sense," Aziraphale said.

Even though it was Crowley who had said it in the first place, and even though he didn't think he had any parts of him left to shatter, he thought a part of him did indeed shatter when Aziraphale agreed so easily. He echoed, "It does?"

"Love doesn't, though."

"What?"

"Love, it doesn't make sense."

Demons weren't, technically, supposed to feel things like better or hope. But if that were true, than what was that slight spark Aziraphale's words created supposed to be called?

"It's not...it's not conditional, Crowley," he said. "I know exactly what you are, it's not as though you've kept it a secret anyway."

He reached a hand out towards Crowley, but he paused just before actually touching him, raising an eyebrow. After he figured out what it was Aziraphale was asking, Crowley gave a small, vaguely uncertain nod. And, ever so tenderly, Aziraphale pulled away his sunglasses.

Crowley had thought he felt vulnerable before, it was nothing compared to what he felt then. With Aziraphale's hand still hovering mere centimeters away from his face, not just looking at him now but seeing him.

"My dear Crowley," Aziraphale said, softer but all the more earnest for it. "Growing a little bit crooked does not make something unworthy of being loved."

"Angel, I--"

He was supposed to be disagreeing with that, that much he knew. Because demons weren't, they weren't supposed to be loved. He imagined any self respecting one would be furious at the very idea of it. Yet, the words wouldn't come. He didn't know how to object to something that he so desperately wanted to be true. Especially when he was only just fully coming to terms with how true he wanted it to be.

But maybe it made sense, that all those times Crowley had asked Aziraphale to go off somewhere with him, what he'd really been saying was this: that none of those places would be worth going to anyway, if Aziraphale wasn't there with him.

He reached a hand up to touch Aziraphale's, hastily pulling away at first as if he would get burned, before slowly reaching back up. Intertwining their fingers, he said, slowly finding the words, "Aziraphale, I don't know how."

Up until a few moments ago, love had been a myth.

Up until a few moments ago, the fact that Crowley would answer the phone for Aziraphale no matter when he called, or the fact that he would go wherever Aziraphale asked, or the fact that he would choose his own suffering over Aziraphale's every single time...Well, those had just been inconvenient, nameless truths.

Up until a few moments ago, Crowley hadn't been willing to admit that those nameless truths had a name. That what they were actually called was love.

"I love you," Crowley said, and the words felt foreign on his tongue but they also felt right. He shook his head and said, "Or I want to, anyway. But I...I don't think I know how to."

"I don't think anyone does," Aziraphale admitted after some consideration. "I mean, look at that humans. They're a mess."

Despite himself, Crowley laughed.

After a second, Aziraphale laughed with him.

Crowley gave his hand a slight squeeze and said, "I suppose we'll just have to figure it out together then, eh?"

"I suppose so," Aziraphale said. And Crowley had seen him smile thousands upon thousands of times, but that particular smile was a new one. "I think I know just where to start, in fact."

"That so?"

"How about that picnic?"

Perhaps it was true that demons weren't supposed to feel things like better, or hope, or especially love. Perhaps it was also true that they were never meant to be loved themselves. But then, Crowley thought, what sort of self respecting demon followed the expectations of what they were supposed to be doing anyway?

It was true that Crowley was a little bit yellow, a little bit wonky. It was true that he had grown crooked.

But Aziraphale smiled at him anyway, preferred his company anyway. Aziraphale loved him anyway.

And well, it might take him some time to come to terms with it, but perhaps if someone like Aziraphale could love Crowley, crookedness and yellow all, then perhaps one day so could Crowley. And time was, after all, one thing that they had plenty of.

They went on that picnic as soon as the next day. In St. James Park.

For all of Aziraphale's previous talk of the dreadful weather, it was a practically perfect day out.

It was true that exactly because Crowley was, in fact, who he was and Aziraphale was who he was, that the only possible word that one could have used to describe them could only have ever been 'love.'

**Author's Note:**

> the concept of crowley projecting on the plants comes from [this](https://foul-fiend.tumblr.com/post/185858651377/thebibliosphere-ariaste-ariaste) genius tumblr post and possibly someone else has already made a fic of it but thought i'd give it a try (also feel free to refer me to any of fics about the idea cuz it's an idea i love and i'll read a hundred fics about it)
> 
> and the fic title comes from sleeping at last's "three" so also please enjoy that song, i cry every time i listen to it


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